1. |
Linear Decline
02:55
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Born alone
With the cord around our throat
Biting nails
Back down to blood and bone
Paced through hell
So long it feels like home
Die alone
Choking on our last hope
Born alone
Die alone
Choked on hope
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2. |
Denouement
02:20
|
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|
God’s in his heaven
Doesn’t visit this part of town
Another dead beat father
Who let his children down
Baptized in mothers’ tears
We could have been so much
More than another sordid waste
On self abusive crutch
No redemption, no grace
No sympathy, for the human race
No salvation, only shame
Find forgiveness, in our graves
We all hope death is something more
Than blue and bloated on the floor
But as we all will find
Reality in not kind
Unkind
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3. |
Speciecide
02:58
|
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|
Armageddon dawning
Above horizon’s blaze
Humanity is a miscarried waste
Evolutions still born fate
Onward, we march
Towards our overdue death
A life, of regrets
Hung on our last breath
Carrion dance gleefully
Howling out to obscurity
Howling towards obscurity
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4. |
Auto-eulogy
00:37
|
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|
8 years late
To my own funeral
Dragged through a life
That never feels like my own
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5. |
Ennui
01:15
|
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|
Dragged through each day
By the scripts we’re prescribed
Premeditated conduct
Until the day we die
Life is an equation
That rounds down to zero
Full speed towards nowhere
Until the engines cease
Bleed yourself dry
Stock up on false relief
Staggering
Bound and fucking gagged
Another walking carcass
Groomed for the slab
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6. |
Infinitesimal
01:49
|
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|
Taking our frail swings
At the abyss
Begging that it matches
Our feeble cowardice
It views our ignorance
With pure indifference
And to our horror
It never blinked
In a voice of pity
The void replied
There’s no way to fight
No logic to try
There’s no reason
To play brave
Bigger men than you
Sing the same song from their grave
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7. |
Spiritual Disease
03:55
|
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|
Ingrained in mans nature
A fear of the unknown
And so the cowards
Call the chapels home
Lift the veil
Of steepled illusions
Discard the book
Of mass deception
There will be no idols
No fiction to fear
No works of plagiarism
Obsolete with years
There’s nothing holy
Inside of us
Nothing but bone
Rotting back to dust
Cut your crosses
And let them bleed
Cure yourself
Of spiritual disease
There’s nothing holy
Inside of us
Nothing but bone
Rotting back to dust
We’re not forsaken
Be this my last decree
In the glory of death
We’re all set free
There is no god
No being above
There’s only man
Wallowing in his filth
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Vorticosus Syracuse, New York
Life is an equation, that rounds down to zero.
Harsh sounds made by bitter people for a miserable audience.
Distributed through Cult of Nine Records
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